


Brands of Shame

by hholme1995



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Carver is protective, Custom Hawke, F/M, Fenris is ashamed of his markings, First Meetings, Hawke is already catching feelings, Innocent Hawke, Lyrium
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-17
Updated: 2018-03-17
Packaged: 2019-04-01 12:03:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,612
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13997937
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hholme1995/pseuds/hholme1995
Summary: Fenris meets Hawke and Co. for the first time.“He wants them back. With or without me.” Fenris continued, eager speed this conversation along, the sooner she stopped asking questions, the better.“Without you? Then he would…how?” she seemed confused, and he almost smiled at such innocence.“By ripping the skin from my corpse. Or at least, I would hope corpse; that would be rather unpleasant if I were alive.”





	Brands of Shame

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not a great writer, but FenHawke brings out my inner bad romance novelist.

Fenris pressed his back against the cold stone of Kirkwall’s alienage walls. He slowly crouched, edging forward, straining to hear the conversation occurring just beyond. 

“You’ve made a big mistake coming here tonight…” The Tevinter hunter muttered, a threat about to form on his breath when a sharp slash, followed by an ignoble gurgling sound, cut short whatever curse he was about to utter. 

Fenris risked leaning further, letting him see the players. A dwarf, a human male, and two human females regarding the tevinter hunter’s still twitching body. The male was running a rag across his bloodied greatsword, giving the rest of the group a haughty smile. 

“Getting pretty tired of this slaver bluster,” he grumbled, but clearly pleased with himself. One of the human females chuckled slightly, giving his shoulder a squeeze as she bent down to examine the hunter, balancing herself with the spear she carried. An unusual weapon for a woman to wield. Lightly tanned skin, with long black curtains of hair framing a soft face. She turned over the body, allowing her hands to probe his clothes, seemingly unperturbed by the splattered blood. 

“Found anything worth this…whatever the hell we’re doing here?” the second female was speaking, nonchalantly twirling a pair of vicious looking daggers. She was Rivani, that much was clear; Denarius had many dealings with Llomeryn pirates, and this woman resembled them greatly. Fenris felt a twinge of venom in his gut, for even thinking of his former master. 

“No,” the other woman replied, “some papers, but I can’t read them, I think they’re in Tevene.” 

“So, I guess we aren’t getting paid? Unless the ink is made of lyrium” the dwarf muttered, adjusting his gloves. 

“I…” the woman faltered, a flash of embarrassment twisted her features, “yes, this may not pay off.” The human male scoffed derisively at this, rolling his eyes. 

“Just great, blood on our hands and not a copper to show for it. Honestly Jeshavis, why I let you bring us into these things…” the human man was cut short by her frustrated groan.

“Just, just don’t Carver.” He turned to glare at her, but stopped complaining, “Maybe we can squeeze something out of Anso.” She mumbled. Ah, so these were indeed who the dwarf had hired. Fenris stepped from the shadows, immediately prompting Carver, the Rivani, and the dwarf to draw their weapons. 

“I believe I can explain.” He held up a hand to stay their blades, and a rather unusual crossbow, and Jeshavis nodded. All but Carver complied, who still eyed the elf warily, blade in hand. “My name is Fenris, these Tevinter hunters were looking to reacquire a Magister’s lost property, namely myself. I didn’t realize they would be so numerous, but it appears Anso chose wisely.” 

“It was no trouble,” the woman named Jeshavis said quickly, leaning gently against the length of her spear. 

“Bollocks!” the Rivani erupted, pushing past Jeshavis to address him, “this certainly wasn’t ‘no trouble’,” she said in a mocking impression, “where’s our pay?” Before Fenris could say a word, Jeshavis stepped in front of the Rivani, flush with mortification, and perhaps some anger. 

“Nonsense Isabella,” she took a moment to glare back at the woman, who scoffed in response, “we don’t require any payment,” she said to Fenris, “more than happy to help.” He was surprised. He had met so few in his travels who cared for anything beyond personal gain. For this woman to have fought what was clearly a battle of unequal odds, and to request nothing in return? The generosity of the action surprised him, and wouldn’t go unrewarded. 

“Your friend is right, and of course, I have a reward for you,” Fenris said, reaching into his pocket for the purse of jangling coin. 

“No, no, I can’t take that,” she argued, stepping closer to him, using the spear to help guide her movements, “Please, keep it.” 

“Well, I’ll take it, if you’re offering payment,” the dwarf grunted from the back of the group. One eyebrow raised, he pivoted himself towards Jeshavis, “it seems you’ll never raise the money you owe me unless I intervene in times like this.” 

“Varric,” she growled, shaking her head in warning. 

“Hawke, I’m not listening to any more refusals,” he sauntered towards Fenris, holding out his hand in expectation, and addressed him directly, “she’ll never admit it, but she does need the money; trying to invest her way out of the slums, and fifty sovereigns takes time.” Jeshavis was glowering behind the dwarf, seemingly trying to set him on fire by her thoughts alone. 

“Consider this a contribution,” Fenris said with a small smile, dropping the bag of coins in the dwarf’s waiting hands. 

“I’m sorry,” she said, practically snarling, “my companions struggle with decency on occasion.” 

“On the contrary, it is only decent that I pay you for work done…” he paused, uncertain how to address her, “I’m afraid I didn’t catch your name,” he finally decided, “Jeshavis or Hawke?” She blistered somewhat hearing the name, running a hand awkwardly through her hair. 

“Hawke is my family name…and what I’d prefer.” Ah, perhaps her first name was only for those close to her. The man, Carver, still had his weapon in hand, letting the blade sit in the dirt, but he was alert. Each time she moved, he followed, tightening his grip on the hilt whenever Fenris chose to speak. Perhaps a lover? That would certainly explain the protective air. 

“Hawke, it is,” he said cordially. 

“If you don’t mind,” she said slowly, placing slightly more weight on her spear, “may I ask a few questions? About all this?” He paused, considering the offer. He still needed her help, and loathe as he was to discuss the situation, he would never secure her help without her knowing at least something. 

“Very well,” he sighed, defeated, “ask your questions.” 

She simply regarded him for a moment, perhaps taking in the fullness of his appearance for the first time. He allowed himself the same advantage. She had an oval face, lightly tanned, indicating a life spent outside. Full pink lips, moist with perspiration. upturned eyes the color of stormy water, but sparkling with curiosity as they looked him over. Long black hair nearly reached her waist, shiny and lush with gentle curls. He wondered idly how she could fight with it like that. In fact, looking at her figure, it was hard to imagine she could fight at all. A gently curving, barely muscled body; thin arms that didn’t look strong enough to hoist the spear she carried. Her eyes bored into him, and her lips began to move, forming a question. 

“I can’t imagine an escaped slave is that uncommon in the Imperium,” she said slowly, scrutinizing his face, “it’s hard to understand why a Magister would go to so much trouble…unless…,” she paused, a pink flush staining her cheekbones.

“Yes, it’s about the tattoos,” he finished for her, holding out his arms to her, showing her how the light blue swirls twisted through every inch of skin, “I imagine I must look strange to you.” 

“No,” she paused, her blush deepening, “strange isn’t the word I would use.” Fenris found himself unable to meet her gaze. Strange had been what he’d hoped, strange was alright…but she must be disgusted by them. He loosened his breath, how any woman couldn’t find them disgusting, just sick evidence that he wasn’t his own, it was too much to hope for. Shame burned in his face. 

“He wants them back. With or without me.” Fenris continued, eager speed this conversation along, the sooner she stopped asking questions, the better. 

“Without you? Then he would…how?” she seemed confused, and he almost smiled at such innocence. 

“By ripping the skin from my corpse. Or at least, I would hope corpse; that would be rather unpleasant if I were alive.” He attempted a small joke, this was already so uncomfortable to discuss, it may help lighten things. The dwarf, Varric, laughed sharply, but Hawke just bristled, a look of revulsion painting her face. 

“I see…” she said quietly, “and are they merely decorative?”

“No, they give me some…” he paused, trying to find the right words to describe, eventually favoring vagueness, “some unique abilities.” She nodded, letting her eyes wander over them with less subtly now.

“What are they made of?” she asked, reaching out a hand to brush against them. He retracted his arms quickly, before she could touch, and her hand retreated to behind her back. 

“Lyrium. They are more akin to branding than a tattoo.” He said simply. She grimaced at the word ‘branding’.

“If you are satisfied?” he asked, and she nodded, now looking anywhere but at the markings, “Then I must request further help, if you are willing?”  
Her gaze softened. 

“Just name it” she smiled. Again, Fenris felt floored by her compassion, even as her roguish companions groaned. Carver, apparently finally satisfied that Fenris wasn’t a threat, had sheathed his greatsword, but he didn’t seem thrilled by this development. 

“I have reason to believe the Magister is in the city. Holed up in his estate near Hightown. I must confront him tonight, but I’ll need help.” He saw how her gaze shifted, the tiniest hint of anxiety rushing across her face. 

“The Magister?” 

“Yes.” 

“Your former Magister, from Tevinter?”

“Yes.”

“Who branded you like cattle, and now wants to rip the flesh from your bones?” 

“Yes, the very same” he said, trying to gauge her reaction. 

“Where is this mansion, what time can we meet you there, and do you know where we can dispose of his body?”


End file.
